


Their Father's Place

by Daughter_of_the_Mountains



Series: Nadadel [6]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: At Least From The Little Brother's POV, Bad News, Big Brothers, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gen, Little Brothers, Sadness, Worry, armchairs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 12:21:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4059805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_the_Mountains/pseuds/Daughter_of_the_Mountains
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gróin's armchair gets used again and Óin drops a bombshell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Father's Place

It has stood beside the fireplace since Óin was a little lad. Their adad's armchair. Many times over the years had Gróin's sons and nephews attempted to keep the padded chair of a warm ruby-red material to themselves. When its rightful owner came back to it, they would try their best to stand their ground (politely, of course) but to no avail. The chair was Gróin's. Only he was allowed to sit in it, though he did allow them to 'keep it warm' when he wasn't around. And they could share it with him, provided they didn't sit on the arm.  
  
Now, Gróin's children didn't know what to do with it.   
  
"For Mahal's sake!" Dwalin said, having watched both walk past it, giving it a longing look as they did. "You mad pair, he's not going to _mind."_  
  
"Well, _you_ sit in it, then!" Glóin said.   
  
_"I'm_ not doing that! He was your father, not mine."  
  
"Well, it seems... I don't know...disrespectful. It was his chair. His place." Óin told him. "I can almost see him sitting there...puffing his pipe.."  
  
Dwalin nodded understandingly. "I know. I remember the time the four of us squished together and told him we couldn't move. In the end, he picked us all up and sat down. He didn't let us go until supper time."  
  
"And he told us, while we complained to him, that he couldn't let go!" Óin reminisced.  
  
"Looking back, it was hilarious." Dwalin admitted. "And we never tried it again!"

* * *

  
They had never tried it again. And, after Gróin got too weak to go downstairs to sit in his favourite armchair, neither had paid it any heed. They brought him the cushion and tucked it under his elbow the way he liked it and _he_ didn't mention it to them, knowing that his children likely would've tried to drag it up the stairs if they thought he missed it too badly.   
  
They really don't know what to do. Throw it away? Their father will likely rise from the grave in fury if they do. Besides, it was his. A reminder of him. The other option is to keep it. But what then? What use is a chair that never gets sat in? It still smells like him, of fire, coal and pipe-smoke.   
  
For now, it stays where it has always stood.   
  
It just looks so inviting. Warm and comfortable and cosy. No wonder Da liked it so much.  
  
"Do you think Da _would_ be angry if we sat in his chair?" Óin half-whispers to his brother one day. "Dwalin was right, he can't complain about it..."  
  
"Go on then." Glóin says."Age before youth!"  
  
"You brat!" Óin says, gently pushing him.   
  
"When Da rises from his grave and scolds you for being a chair thief, don't come crying to me!"  
  
"You're so cruel." Óin teasingly laments. "Well, he never liked wasting things, did he?"  
  
"No," Glóin agrees. "And it is sort of _wasteful_ , having a chair that no one uses."  
  
"It is."  
  
There's a pause. Glóin nudges him. "You're the Head of the House. Go on!"  
  
"Right." Óin grumbles as he gets up and heads warily to the chair. "When I'm telling you things you need to do, or scolding you because you've eaten all the shortbread, I'm a tyrannical monster. _Now_  I'm the Head of the House?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Wonderful." Óin touches the armrest anxiously. He walks to face the chair and carefully puts his right knee on it. He turns himself and wriggles back. "Ye gods. I never realised how tall he was! I'm not even touching the floor with my toes."  
  
Glóin grins. "It looks funny!"  
  
"Charming. Come over here, eh?"  
  
His brother does and looks down at him. "Can...Can I join you?"  
  
"Well, I am the Head of the House." Óin says, trying to look as solemn as he can. "I'm not sure t'is alright for you to join me."

* * *

  
Glóin sits on the armrest. This used to drive their father bonkers.   
  
_'You'll break the arm!'_ Gróin used to snap. With this, he'd scoop whoever was foolish enough to sit upon the armrest from their perch and onto his lap.  
  
"If you do break the arm," Óin says mildly, "He'll come out the grave and roar at you." This is actually quite the frightening thought. Glóin slides down and nestles beside his brother instead. Óin tucks an arm around him. "I didn't mean it literally." He says gently   
  
"I know." Glóin looks up at him. Óin so takes after their mother. He has her twinkling black eyes, her pale golden locks, her nose, the little dimple when he smiles, even the tiny beauty spot on his left cheek. But now he sees that his face is like their father's, Óin has their da's slightly darker skin, his ears, his gaze, his build and had a similar style for his hair and beard. And he is like him, gentle and warm, not fierce and fiery like their mother. She was aggressively affectionate, giving tight hugs and tickling them when cuddling them. She never meant malice, but there was a world of difference between her and her husband.   
  
"Nadadith?" Óin is touching his face gently with his fingertips. He looks worried. "You look sad."  
  
"You're so much like them." Glóin murmurs wistfully. "I think you do it on purpose!"  
  
Óin chuckles. "Purely by accident! Blame our parents." He smiles softly, but his eyes look sad. "You're like them too. Little and fiery like Mammy. You have her eyes and her small ears and her face and build. I don't think you'll be huge with muscle like Dwalin. You'll be quite tall, like Da. The younger brothers of Durin's line tend to be taller than their elders."  
  
"Da was huge with muscle." Glóin points out.   
  
"Dwarves and dwarrowdams have different builds. Lasses tend to not show as much muscle, but are quite strong. You'll be strong too. You might even take after Da.  
  
Fair enough, Glóin thinks.   
  
"You look much like him."  
  
"Just because I'm ginger..."  
  
Óin grins. "You take after Da like I take after Mammy. You even have his freckles."  
  
"But not his eyes."  
  
"Neither of us has his eyes."  
  
"They were his best feature."  
  
"I'm telling him you said that."  
  
"He told me so!" Glóin protests. This is true. Gróin had been paticularly proud of his eye colour.   
  
"Soft and warm like the sky in summer." Óin remembers, speaking softly.   
  
"Or hard and cold like the ice in winter."  
  
Óin gives him a sideways glance. "Be fair, he never got hard and cold so often with us."  
  
"No," Glóin agrees. "Da loved us." He sighs. "They turned colourless during the Fading illness."  
  
"They did. Went from piercing light blue to nearly white." Óin is quiet for a moment. "Nadadith..... Do you think he approves of me with you?"

* * *

  
"Why wouldn't he? It's not like you allow me to get drunk every night."  
  
"Perish the thought! You're mad enough when you're sober."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Óin smirks. "Well, I'm different to him."  
  
"It's not a bad different."  
  
"You believe so?"  
  
"I do."  
  
Óin kisses his head. "I don't think he'd be happy that I've taken so much time from work."  
  
"You're going back?"  
  
"I _have_ to. We can't keep depending on our cousins to bring us food and kindling."  
  
Glóin looks very uncertain. No wonder. He's had so much time with him and Óin wishes he could stay with him each day, but he knows that soon he has to return to work.   
  
Glóin looks away. "Mmm."  
  
"Nadadith?" He shrugs. He has become emotionless, as he did after Adad died. Óin squeezes his hand. "I love you."  
  
"So much that you will abandon me so you can work those stupidly long hours again." Glóin mutters bitterly.   
  
"Brother..."  
  
"What? You know very well how long you'll be gone! And don't tell me that you'll be only gone twice a week. I _know_ what will happen!"  
  
"For the love of Mahal, don't be so difficult!"  
  
"Well, I'm sorry to throw a wrench in your life, _gêmadad_ , but I miss your company!" Glóin snaps.   
  
Óin sighs softly. "Nadadith, you don't understand..."  
  
"No, _you_ don't! And you're not _trying_ to. You don't know what it's like for someone you love to always be late for you, or to leave for such a long time!"

With this, his nadadith wrenches himself free of his hold and storms out, leaving his confused brother in their father's place.


End file.
